“Uncle—”
“I went last night to see your Madame Firmiani,” said the uncle, kissing the tips of all his fingers together. “She is charming,” he went on. “You have the king’s warrant and approval, and your uncle’s consent, if that is any satisfaction to you. As to the sanction of the Church, that I suppose is unnecessary—the sacraments, no doubt, are too costly. Come, speak out. Is it for her that you have ruined yourself?”
“Yes, uncle.”
“Ah! the hussy! I would have bet upon it. In my day a woman of fashion could ruin a man more cleverly than any of your courtesans of today. I saw in her a resuscitation of the last century.”
“Uncle,” said Octave, in a voice that was at once sad and gentle, “you are under a mistake. Madame Firmiani deserves your esteem, and all the adoration of her admirers.”
“So hapless youth is always the same!” said Monsieur de Bourbonne, “Well, well! go on in your own way; tell me all the old stories once more. At the same time, you know, I dare say, that I am no chicken in such matters.”
“My dear uncle, here is a letter which will explain everything,” replied Octave, taking out an elegant letter-case—her gift, no doubt. “When you have read it I will tell you the rest, and you will know Madame Firmiani as the world knows her not.”
“I have not got my spectacles,” said his uncle. “Read it to me.”
Octave began: “My dear love—”
“Then you are very intimate with this woman?”
“Why, yes, uncle?”
“And you have not quarreled?”
“Quarreled!” echoed Octave in surprise. “We are married—at Gretna Green.”
“Well, then, why do you dine for forty sous?”
“Let me proceed.”
“Very true. I am listening.”
Octave took up the letter again, and could not read certain passages without strong emotion.
“My beloved husband, you ask me the reason of my melancholy. Has it passed from my soul into my face, or have you only guessed it? And why should you not? Our hearts are so closely united. Besides, I cannot lie, though that perhaps is a misfortune. One of the conditions of being loved is, in a woman, to be always caressing and gay. Perhaps I ought to deceive you; but I would not do so, not even if it were to increase or to preserve the happiness you give me—you lavish on me—under which you overwhelm me. Oh, my dear, my love carries with it so much gratitude! And I must love forever, without measure. Yes, I must always be proud of you. Our glory—a woman’s glory—is all in the man she loves. Esteem, consideration, honor, are they not all his who has conquered everything? Well, and my angel has fallen. Yes, my dear, your last confession has dimmed my past happiness. From that moment I have felt myself humbled through you—you, whom I believed to be the purest of men, as you are the tenderest and most loving. I must have supreme confidence in your still childlike heart to make an avowal which costs me so dear. What, poor darling, your father stole his fortune, and you know it, and you keep it! And you could tell me of this attorney’s triumph in a room full of the dumb witnesses of our love, and you are a gentleman, and you think yourself noble, and I am yours, and you are two-and-twenty! How monstrous all through!
“I have sought excuses for you; I have ascribed your indifference to your giddy youth; I know there is still much of the child in you. Perhaps you have never yet thought seriously of what is meant by wealth, and by honesty. Oh, your laughter hurt me so much! Only think, there is a family, ruined, always in grief, girls perhaps, who curse you day by day, an old man who says to himself every night, ‘I should not lack bread if Monsieur de Camps’ father had only been an honest man.’ ”
“What!” exclaimed Monsieur de Bourbonne, interrupting him, “were you such an idiot as to tell that woman the story of your father’s affair with the Bourgneufs? Women better understand spending a fortune than making one—”
“They understand honesty. Let me go on, uncle!
“Octave, no power on earth is authorized to garble the language of honor. Look into your conscience, and ask it by what name to call the action to which you owe your riches.”
And the nephew looked at his uncle, who beat his head.
“I will not tell you all the thoughts that beset me; they can all be reduced to one, which is this: I cannot esteem a man who knowingly soils himself for a sum of money whether large or small. Five francs stolen at play, or six times a hundred thousand francs obtained by legal trickery, disgrace a man equally. I must tell you all: I feel myself sullied by a love which till now was all my joy. From the bottom of my soul there comes a voice I cannot stifle. I have wept to find that my conscience is stronger than my love. You might commit a crime, and I would hide you in my bosom from human justice if I could; but my devotion would go no further. Love, my dearest, is, in a woman, the most unlimited confidence, joined to I know not what craving to reverence and adore the being to whom she belongs. I have never conceived of love but as a fire in which the noblest feelings were yet further purified—a fire which develops them to the utmost.
“I have but one thing more to say: Come to me poor, and
